


Know You Anywhere

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Demon Bobby Singer, Demon Deals, Human Crowley, Hunter Crowley - Freeform, M/M, Past Abuse, Stalking, reverse verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:09:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2472701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Initial here, print your name here, aaaand sign here," the gruff-voiced demon says as he leans over Fergus's shoulder, pointing at three spaces in the multitude of letters that make up his contract. A contract that essentially adds up to the soul of one Fergus Roderick "Crowley" MacLeod being pawned off in exchange for assurances of future help from the very demon standing behind him.<br/>(A reverse!verse fic-in-progress based off of gorlassar's art on tumblr.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Deal

(I COULDN'T THINK OF ANYTHING BETTER FOR CROWLEY TO SELL HIS SOUL FOR I'M SORRY IT'S KIND OF WEAK SAUCE) (also Crowley has so many nicknames in this, deepest apologies, I couldn't settle on one) (also there is more to come)

This is based off of gorlassar's reverse!verse comic on tumblr, please go check it out!

\----

  
"Initial here, print your name here, aaaand sign here," the gruff-voiced demon says as he leans over Fergus's shoulder, pointing at three spaces in the multitude of letters that make up his contract. A contract that essentially adds up to the soul of one Fergus Roderick "Crowley" MacLeod being pawned off in exchange for assurances of future help from the very demon standing behind him. He bites his lip, reconsidering his life choices, and scribbles his name in black ink that turns blood red as soon as it hits the paper.

  
"Perfect," the demon- Bobby- plucks the scroll from the desk, rolls it up and tucks it into the breast pocket of his tailored, slate grey suit. "Pleasure doing business with you. I think this collaboration will be all kinds of useful to the both of us."  
Crowley nods, his stomach in knots, and not just because of the contract he's signed. The close proximity of the other man- damn him and his irrationally attractive meatsuit and disarmingly good manners- is affecting him more than he would prefer.

  
"So," he says, lounging back in an attempt to look nonchalant, "What'd you sell _your_ soul for, then, back in the day? Fame? Fortune? A big willy, maybe?"

  
Bobby laughs. "No, no, and-" He grins, a wicked little gleam in his eye. "-why pay for something you already got?"

  
Crowley feels himself flush at the answer, and he ducks his head. "Well, you got what you came for."

  
"Hmm, not quite," Bobby says, sauntering around the desk with his hands in his pockets, the picture of Southern charm. He bends at the waist and uses one finger to tip Crowley's chin up. "Still need to seal the deal. Rules are rules, sugar."

  
Crowley scoffs, but he knows there's no sense in putting it off. He shifts in his chair, wondering whether he should stand or remain seated. He decides to go with standing, swatting the demon's hand away and rising but keeping his gaze focused down for the moment. This would be easier, he thinks, if he weren't actually attracted to the other man. _Demon_ , he reminds himself. "Go on, then," he says.

  
Instead of immediately planting one on him, Bobby reaches up and strokes one knuckle down the curve of Fergus's cheek, making the man blink and take a sharp breath. "You can relax, you know- it's not like I'm dragging you down with me just yet."

  
Crowley huffs. "Arsehole." He squares his shoulders and looks the man square in the eye. This is hardly his first time kissing another man- in fact, it won't even be his first time kissing Bobby (a trick, he repeats again and again, that time was just a trick the demon used to escape the trap he was in). He wonders if it's a bad sign that he ranks this demon lower on the list of incredibly dangerous decisions than most of his romantic history.

  
Bobby chuckles, his fingertips still resting against the hunter's jaw. He leans in, the tips of their noses brushing. "Seriously, though- it's alright. It's just a kiss; you can close your eyes if you like."

  
"You're awfully reassuring for a demon," Crowley mutters, but he closes his eyes anyway, hoping privately that maybe there will be less chance of this scenario appearing in any of his more... intimate dream sequences if he can't actually see it happen.

  
He feels the warmth radiating from Bobby as the demon moves in, smells rich cologne and smoke over the faintest trace of sulfur. Instead of immediately diving in, like Crowley would have expected, he pauses there and just breathes, as if he's savoring the moment. Maybe he's just waiting for Crowley to make the first move- maybe that's a requirement? Or it could be something even weirder; he could be scenting Crowley's soul for all he knows. He cracks an eye and is just about to speak up when Bobby shifts forward that last inch and their lips meet for the second time.

  
For a moment they remain suspended like that, strangely chaste in their contact. Crowley tries to hold himself still, counts the beats of his heart to distract himself from the way he wants to lean in and open up, from the memory of that same mouth on his but hotter, wetter. Then Bobby's fingers glide up the curve of his jaw, warm palm settling against his cheek, and it's that shock of tenderness that makes him shudder and pulls a sound from his throat. That's all it takes; suddenly they're both pressing together, kissing and fumbling blindly like a wall between them has come crashing down, like they can't get enough of each other. Crowley moans, full-throated and needy, when a hand slides into his, fingers weaving together. He both feels and hears Bobby's groan in response when he grabs at the demon's backside and squeezes. His thighs tense and heat floods his veins, rockets through him.

  
There's a faint click, and he opens his eyes to see Bobby holding up a phone, the camera turned toward them. He breaks away, ignoring the wet sound of their mouths parting and the molten fire that still circles inside him. "Seriously?"

  
The demon shrugs and grins. "I'm not much for all this hoity-toity technology, but I gotta admit... the camera phone is pretty neat."

  
He rolls his eyes and tries to move back and away, but a hand catches him around the waist and keeps him there.  
"Hmm, someone's gone all tense." The hand slides down ever so slightly, squeezing familiarly at the soft flesh just above Crowley's hip through the two shirts he wears. "What happened? A moment ago you were feelin' nice and loose."

  
Fucking hell. He opens his mouth for a snide remark, but nothing comes.

  
"Tell you what," the demon intones, leaning in once more until the heat of his breath makes Crowley swallow and lick his lips. "Next time I pop by, I'll get you outta those ratty jeans and help you... relax." A low, rumbling chuckle. "I could give you one Hell of a ride, sweetheart."

  
The nickname tacked onto the end should sound condescending, should ruffle Fergus's feathers and turn him off, but instead of patronizing, the words sound genuine- even affectionate- and he can't help the hitch in his breath or the speed of his pulse. For a second, just a second, he lets himself buy it, parts his lips once more-

  
-only to stumble slightly when the bulk of the other man's body is suddenly gone, replaced by a swirl of smoke and a jolt of humiliating realization.

  
"Next time you 'pop by', I'm gonna blast that bloody smirk right off your bloody face, d'you hear me?" Crowley yells at the empty house, his face scarlet and his 'ratty' jeans uncomfortably tight. "Bastard," he mutters under his breath as he rubs his knuckles furiously over the cheek Bobby had touched. 

 

 


	2. The Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg finds out about the deal, and is none too pleased about it.

"Hey Rod, you got any info on Hide-Behinds?" Meg calls out as she practically kicks the door down, strolling in with her usual disregard for common courtesy. "Also, I found this and totally thought of you." She waves a t-shirt in one hand, flings it at him, and plops herself down on the sofa.

  
Fergus catches the shirt before it can land on his head, holding it up to read the words 'I Can't Keep Calm, I'm Irish'. He rolls his eyes and drops it onto his desk. He's long since given up trying to remind people that he's Scottish.

  
Meg looks up suddenly from her lounging. "Why do I smell sulfur?"

 

"Wasn't me," he replies, avoiding her eyes.

She sits up. "MacLeod, you better start talking before I call Sheriff Abbi. Were you having some kind of demon sleepover?" Her eyes narrow. "If you are possessed right now I swear to god I'm gonna exorcise the crap out of you, and don't think I'll be gentle about it."

"I'm not possessed, for fuck's sake." He walks over and knocks her feet off the couch. "I might have, possibly, made a teensy tiny little itty bitty crossroads deal and bartered my soul to a demon."

"You did what?!" She bursts off the sofa, knocking over a neat stack of books. 

"It's fine, alright? It was necessary."

"Necessary? Crowley, it's your soul! Your _soul_ is necessary! You know what, that's it, I am calling Abbi." She yanks her phone out of her pocket and starts dialing. "And just you wait until Sam and Dean find out! And Cain- I'm telling Cain, and he'll come here and lock your stupid self-sacrificing ass in a Hellhound-proof cell for a million billion years, you dick!"

"No!" He grabs the phone and ends the call, holding it away from her. "Look, Meg darling, it's the apocalypse- doesn't seem worth getting precious over one little soul."

"Oh, I am gonna kill you!" She flails for her phone and he smacks her hands away. "You- gimme my- you dickbag!" She hisses under her breath. "Soul-selling, selfish son-of-a-bitch-"

"Calm down, would you?" Crowley steps back and holds up his hands. "I didn't exactly sell it, more like- pawned it. Once we solve this apocalypse thing, I'll get it back."

"Bullshit." She stops trying to maul him and stands still, crossing her arms and glaring. "What did you even trade it for?"

"I swapped it for... insurance. For help with things."

"Things?" She raises a brow. "Be a little more vague, jeez."

"Help with hunts, new monsters, the oncoming end of days and all that. I've got what you might call a man on the inside now." He scratches at the back of his neck, still guiltily trying not to meet her angry gaze. 

"Man on the- oh, are you kidding me?" She demands, throwing her hands into the air. "You made a deal with _Bobby_? You literally sold your soul to the devil just to get some. You are the biggest, dumbest, demon-crush-havingest idiot ever." She places a hand on his shoulder and says seriously, "Roderick, I know it has been a long time- a long, long, loooong time- since you hooked up with somebody but trust me when I say this is not how you do it."

"And you lot wonder why I never confide in any of you," he responds dryly, plucking her hand from his shoulder and letting it drop. "It wasn't about that. Do you really think I'm that stupid?"

"Yes," she says plainly. "You're a guy, and you're lonely, and he rustles your jimmies and now you're thinking with your dick and he's got your soul and you're gonna go to hell and get fucked over in the worst possible way and it's gonna suck for everyone involved. Except him, because he'll have you bent over a barrel. Literally." She glowers murderously at him.

"First of all, I am not lonely," he returns primly. "And yes, he's perhaps slightly attractive in a Southern-gentleman-serial-killer kind of way, but I assure you there are no jimmies being rustled, I am thinking with my brain like a normal person, and I'm not going to hell. Why, dear Meg," he smirks, knowing that this will get a rise out of her. "Are you just worried I'll come back as too strong a demon for you to handle?"

She snorts. "You'd make a terrible demon. You're too soft."

"Excuse you," he says, drawing himself up to his full (not terribly impressive) height. "I'm a renowned hunter, feared by all manner of ghosties and ghouls. I'd be a terrifying demon. I'd be the king of demons. I am not soft."

"Uh huh." Meg crosses her arms again. "And how many stray dogs have you taken in in the past two months, exactly?"

"What? Shut up. That's not- the dogs make sense, alright, they're for- security reasons!" He protests lamely, even as his latest rescue (a scrawny, one-eyed mutt with fur so patchy he's taken to putting old sweaters on her to keep her warm) comes in with her manky tail wagging. She butts her head against his hand until he pets her, then trots out of the room.

"You're an idiot," Meg reiterates, looking unimpressed.

"Oh, get out of my house, already," he sighs, reaching up to the shelf and handing her a book on Hide-Behinds along with her phone. 

"I'm still telling Sam and Dean!" She calls as she walks back to her car.


	3. The Ordeal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone else finds out about Crowley's deal, and takes unpleasant action.  
> Lots of warnings for this chapter! Attempted rape, assault, torture, mentions of a past abusive relationship and stalking. Please be careful!

(In my headcanon of this 'verse ((WHICH COULD BE ENTIRELY WRONG FORGIVE ME)) Alistair and Crowley's relationship is like an incredibly fucked-up abusive version of Rufus and Bobby: Alistair is this hardcore, bordering on psychotic hunter who took a young Fergus under his wing and taught him the trade, and when Fergus got a little older he realized that it was a shitty situation and that Al is super dangerous to humans and monsters alike, so he got out and avoided the hell out of him from then on. But of course Alistair is a twisted guy so he pops in sometimes for information and acts like everything's fine, and Crowley will interact with him the bare minimum because the guy is a hunter and he 'owes' him.)

\---

  
Less than a week after the deal, Crowley steps out of the bathroom, hair still damp from the shower, to find Alistair standing in his library. 

"Jesus, fucking-" He jerks in alarm at the sight of the other hunter, who glances at him with a pleased, almost friendly expression.

"Morning, Fergus," Alistair runs his fingers over the lacquered wood of the desk. (Al is the only one that calls him 'Fergus'. To everyone else, he's either Crowley or Roderick, and he prefers it that way.) "You're looking well," he adds, dragging his eyes up and down the smaller man's form and making him wish he'd thrown on more than just loose jeans and a t-shirt after his shower. 

"You're supposed to call when you need help, Al. Not show up in person," Crowley snaps, squaring his stance and hunching his shoulders on instinct. 

"You make it sound like I'm not welcome." Alistair sighs, taking off his coat and dropping it onto the desk chair, revealing the arsenal he always carries- a belt with a dozen knives, a handgun on either hip, and more blades tucked discretely into his boots. 

"You're not," Crowley answers flatly. "You know you're not."

"Y'know, I heard the wildest rumor," Alistair says smoothly, ignoring his reply as he steps around the desk. "Someone told me Fergus MacLeod, the finest, most savvy man I ever did meet, had sold his immortal soul to a filthy crossroad demon." He shakes his head, smiling faintly in a kind of 'can-you-believe-it?' amusement. "Imagine that. My Fergus, my pride and joy, switching sides on me. Have you ever heard anything like that? I mean, that would just be- crazy."

Crowley is already scanning the room, hoping he has a shotgun or at least a knife within reach. No such luck- the nearest weapon is his pistol in the desk drawer, and Alistair is standing firmly in front of it. "Did you need something, or did you really come here because you heard some gossip about me?"

"Oh, I was in the area already when I heard the news," the other hunter replies, and Crowley sees the way his long fingers trace around the hilt of one of the knives at his belt. "But that's not what's important."

"No?" Crowley doesn't like the gleam in his former mentor's eyes. He reaches slowly back, feeling in his pocket for his phone. 

"What's important," Alistair snarls suddenly, taking a step forward, "What's important is that you sold your soul, Fergus. You made yourself one of them. And now," he draws the largest blade from its sheath and holds it up to the lamplight, "I have to put you down."

Crowley bolts, feinting left and then dodging right when the older man takes a swipe at him. He runs for the kitchen, where he has a shotgun at the ready, but Alistair is hot on his heels. Before he can cross the threshold, an arm grips him tight around the chest, pinning his arms at his sides. He twists in the hold, trying to elbow his way free like he's done on a hundred hunts, but there's a sudden, sharp pain in his side, buckling his knees and making him gasp. He slumps in the taller man's grasp, and Alistair slips the knife out from between Crowley's ribs as he lowers him to the floor. 

"That's it," Alistair croons, crouching over him. "Come on, now." He takes hold of Crowley's legs and drags him back into the library, leaving a jagged smear of blood on the linoleum. The wounded man kicks with one leg, fingers clawing at the floorboards, but his attacker merely yanks harder, jolting the injury and taking the fight out of him. 

He drops Crowley onto the center of the rug in the library, slamming his head against the floor when he tries to crawl away. Crowley groans, stunned, and Alistair runs a hand through his damp hair. 

"I didn't want it to be this way," the older hunter says bitterly. "You made me do this. But it's alright," he continues fervently. "It's better like this- they don't get to have you. You'll stay mine." He runs the edge of the blade down Fergus's cheek, following the same path Bobby's finger traced days earlier. 

Crowley jerks, feeling something tear inside him and a fresh gout of blood soak his shirt, when he hears the jingle of a belt buckle and the slick sound of leather sliding against denim. He makes another effort to crawl away, his palms sliding through the puddle of gore as more strength leaves his body with every beat of his heart. A weight drops down onto him, Alistair straddling his hips and plastering himself to the bleeding man. 

"Say it," he orders in a harsh whisper, one hand finding the wound and touching it lightly, lovingly, while he drags his mouth over the skin of Crowley's shoulderblade. "Say you're mine and I'll be... gentle. Say it for me one last time." His voice breaks slightly, like he's the one wounded. 

Crowley spits out a string of furious Gaelic that is cut short when blood floods his mouth, making him choke. The knife slides, cold and still blood-wet, beneath the hem of his jeans and slices through the fabric. Alistair is humming something under his breath- _La Vie En Rose_ , Crowley recognizes distantly. He remembers that song playing in the car years ago, as they drove across the country on hunts, remembers it playing in the background that first time in the backseat... This is Alistair's idea of nostalgia, of romance. Crowley would almost want to laugh, if he weren't busy dying.

"Say it," the low voice urges again. "Say it, Fergus."

"Go- go fuck y'rself," he manages. 

And then suddenly Alistair's weight is gone, and everything is a blur of chaos and pain and confusion as something crashes loudly nearby. Alistair swears, something else shatters against the floorboards, and then there's a sound like nothing Crowley's ever heard, a low-frequency buzz that builds to a roar, rattling the furniture like an earthquake. He tries to roll himself over and see whatever new danger has presented itself, but his arms are weak, uncooperative. He hears Al scream once, short and sharp, and then the room goes jarringly silent. A few papers drift to the ground, a pencil rolls off the desk. He manages to haul himself up enough to turn over and prop himself up against the nearest bookshelf, peering around for any signs of a new attacker. Instead he sees Bobby, standing in the corner of the room and wiping his hands with his pocket kerchief. The wall behind him is cracked and slick with a thick, dark liquid. 

"Wherizze?" Crowley asks, garbling the question as he struggles to breathe- he's pretty sure at least one of his lungs is filling with blood. 

Bobby tucks the kerchief into the pocket of his suit. "Gone."

Crowley nods, too lightheaded to question. "Okay." He raises a hand and touches it to the wound, feeling more blood gush between his fingers. 

Bobby seems to notice the injury for the first time. "Damnit MacLeod, you're bleedin' like a stuck pig."

"Uh huh."

The demon kneels next to him, the knees of his dark pinstriped suit staining with blood. "Looks like he got you good. Shit."

The hunter blinks sluggishly, trying to keep pressure on the gaping hole in his side. "Think 'm dying."

"Shut up."

"You shu'up." He's cold; he can't feel his fingertips and it's getting harder and harder to breathe around the flood of copper in his throat and mouth. He tries to blink again, but his eyes refuse to open once they're closed. It dawns on him why Bobby would even be here. Of course, he's not here to rescue Crowley- he's here to collect. "You here... t'take me wi' you?" He rasps, feeling blood run down his chin.

Bobby doesn't answer right away, and when Crowley manages to open his eyes, he sees that the demon looks- well, he doesn't look victorious, that's for sure. He looks... stricken, brows drawn together, the corners of his mouth turned down and his eyes somber. "No," he says finally, one hand rising slowly and hovering uncertainly, first over Crowley's shoulder, then his hand, eventually coming to a halt over the wound. "No, I'm- you're gonna- this..." He's saying more, but it's muffled by the slow thundering sound in Crowley's ears, and the demon's face is blurring and fading in and out of the hunter's vision. 

Crowley's bloody hand falls from his side, his arm too weak to hold it there, and he feels Bobby's fingers squeeze his own. He squeezes back, or tries, at least, and mumbles, "S'nice. You bein' 'ere."

"Crowley?" Bobby's voice is barely audible, and the last thing Crowley sees is the red glow of his eyes.

 


	4. Heal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Unless I end up adding a smut chapter.

 

 

"Crowley?" The voice is faint, familiar, and Crowley feels panic seize his chest- is it Alistair? The last thing he remembers is Al, and a knife, and pain. He wants to open his eyes and see who it is, but his body feels immeasurably heavy and isn't listening to his commands. "Crowley?" No, it can't be Alistair- he only ever calls him Fergus. Whoever it is seems closer now, and he manages to make a tiny sound in response. There's a flurry of activity nearby, the sound of a chair scraping across uneven floorboards, and then a hand presses against his forehead, shocking in its warmth on his chilled skin. A thumb pries one of his eyes open, and for a moment the low lights in the room blind him. "Hey," the voice says, "C'mon, now, say somethin' and let me know you ain't got brain damage." 

Crowley groans and closes his eyes again. 

"Crowley!" A pause, and then, tentatively, "...Roderick?"

"Mmrrgh," he says in response. Then a few more memories flick by and he manages to open his eyes on his own, blinking as Bobby comes into focus. "Ohhh, what happened? Did I die? Is this hell? It's softer than I was expecting. Unless it's heaven, in which case it's harder than I was expecting."

"You're in your bed, genius."

"That only answers one of my questions." Crowley sits up slowly, feeling weak but surprisingly unperforated. "In fact, it raises more. How did I get into my bed? And again, what happened?"

Bobby shakes his head, the corners of his mouth raising just a hint like he can't help it. "Do you ever shut up?"

"Only on very special occasions," he grunts, leaning against the pillows. "What happened to Alistair?"

Bobby shrugs. "He's not anywhere you need to worry about."

"Did you kill him?" Crowley asks, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. 

The demon leans down just a bit, baring his teeth in a grin. "Not yet."

That should be deeply unsettling, but Crowley only feels overwhelming relief- wherever Al is, it seems he's not likely to return from there. 

He feels something nudge his hand, and he turns to find Applesauce, the pitbull mix he rescued from a dogfighting ring, with his chin resting on the edge of the bed. Three of Crowley's dogs are in the room, in fact, clustered around the bed whining and looking at him imploringly. He sighs and pats each one reassuringly. 

"They followed me in here," Bobby says. "They were very worried."

"Bunch of mangy mutts," Crowley says fondly. "They're just afraid that I won't be around to refill their bowls." Juliet, his oldest dog, hauls herself up onto the bed and wags her tail in adoration. Bobby reaches out a hand, and Crowley opens his mouth to warn him- she's awfully persnickety, and will often growl and snap at even Sam and Dean when they stop by. Before he can speak, though, she turns her head and covers the demon's outstretched hand in slobbery mastiff kisses, her tail thumping even harder against the covers. 

Crowley slides his legs out from under the blankets (briefly noting that, well, he was under the blankets in the first place- did Bobby actually _tuck him in_?) and sits on the edge of the bed, cautiously sliding one hand under his blood-stained, ragged t-shirt (which used to bear the slogan 'Magically Delicious!' but now probably says something like 'Magly Dicus!') and probing around for the injury. There isn't one.

"You saved me," he says, palm flat against the smooth skin where a mortal wound should be.

Bobby shrugs. "Your contract says you get ten years, remember? Seems kind of unsporting to cut you off this early."

Crowley blinks at him, then reaches up and hooks two fingers in the lapels of Bobby's suit, yanks him down and kisses him. The demon actually seems surprised at that, if the way he freezes up is any indication. His hands land on Crowley's shoulders, stay there for a moment, and then slide down as he presses into the kiss. Crowley hums when the warm touch bleeds through the holes in his shirt, finds the bare skin and circles it gently, as if making absolutely certain that the wound is gone. He runs his fingers through Bobby's perfectly-coiffed hair, opens his mouth and moans when Bobby meets him there. They half-topple back onto the bed, Crowley's arms going around Bobby's waist and tugging him closer, and the demon growls and rocks their hips together. Crowley moves to hook a leg around the other man's, to get a better angle, but a sudden wave of dizziness overtakes him and he breaks the kiss to gasp for air and blink spots from his vision. Bobby jerks back, brows drawn, and slides off of the hunter with a look of wry abashment. He runs the pad of his thumb over Crowley's lower lip, but withdraws it when the man tries to swipe at it with the tip of his tongue.

"I know I made you an offer last time I was here, but I'm thinkin' we'll have to wait on that ride of yours for now," he says regretfully.

Crowley snorts. "You are the weirdest demon I've ever met."

"Thanks." He straightens and chuckles, gesturing toward the wall. "Besides, I dunno how into being watched you are."

Crowley glances up to see the dogs watching them from the corner of the room, each bearing similar expressions of confusion and mild concern. He rolls his eyes and flops back onto the mattress. Bobby laughs again, takes one of the hunter's hands in his own and bends to kiss it, the perfect gentleman. "Next time," he says, eyes gleaming. 

Crowley huffs and waves him away, cheeks pink. "Next time, bring booze," he says sarcastically. "I'm not the flowers-and-chocolates type, you might've guessed."

Bobby's laugh echoes through the room as he disappears. 

But he does bring booze the next time. And chocolates and flowers, just in case.

 

 


End file.
